


Promise

by st_ivalice



Series: simul stabunt, simul cadent [1]
Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-10
Updated: 2018-07-10
Packaged: 2019-06-08 05:06:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,791
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15235977
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/st_ivalice/pseuds/st_ivalice
Summary: Lady Crescentia Amicitia, Shield of the King CXII, formally presents her twin children, Clarus and Felicia, to the Crown Prince Regis.





	Promise

“Mother says don’t fuss.”

“I’m not _fussing_.”

“Yes you are.”

Clarus stared pointedly at his sister’s reflection through the mirror. “No, I’m _not._ ”

“Then why is your hair down?” Felicia’s smirk was infuriating.

He ignored her and looked back at his hair, gathering it again to tie up. Of course _her_ hair was perfect on the first try, even though their haircut was the same; shaved on the sides and back, hair to be in a neat top knot. He is quite certain Mother did it intentionally so they’ll look similar, so people won’t judge them on gender, won’t make presumptions on which of the Lady Shield’s twins will become the Shield to the Prince.

But Felicia is taller than him, stronger, _luckier._ If the ceremony today was three months earlier, they’d be the same height.

“Clarus, my darling, you _are_ fussing. Let me,” his mother said. He released his hair as she ran her fingers through it to gather it up again. In the reflection, she looked at his sister. “Felicia, dear, your brooch is on the wrong side.”

Felicia huffed in annoyance and adjusted it.

As Clarus allowed his mother to tie his hair, he looked at himself in the mirror. She only ever called them _her darlings_ when she knew they were out of sorts, when she knew he was insecure in his position next to his sister. He had not told her he felt as such, but as the ceremony drew near, he was certain she knew. And at the same time, it was not so rare to see her so tender, but that was the Amicitia Way; the intensity of training was balanced with the warmth of their family. Or so they said.

Clarus was old enough to know that his grandfather had not chosen his mother to be his successor, choosing her cousin instead. This moment, this ceremony, was as important for his mother as it was for him and Felicia. She and the King had done this in secret, in defiance, as he suspected she did now, presenting both of them. Born together, the birthright was theirs, even if only one of them could be Shield.

His Mother smiled at him in the mirror, done with his hair and stood up behind him, gesturing for Felicia to stand next to him as well. “There,” she said, observing the three of them in the glass, “Perfect.”

Clarus did not see the perfection in himself, only in Felicia, and she glanced at him through the mirror, her smile faltering just the slightest; the pity one with a birthright has for their sibling who was unfortunate enough to be born second.

* * *

 

Their mother held their hands to show her support. A simple escort from their estate to the Citadel was all they had, yet the public knew this was an important ceremony for the future of Lucis. The Heir to the throne was born, now the heirs to the blade will secure his reign. But still, nothing was set in stone. The Prince was not King until the Crystal accepted him, and for he and Felicia, this was only First Presentation. There were three oaths to be taken before an Amicitia was confirmed Shield. But the public did not know their traditions, their duties to the crown in full; that today would be only the King, the Prince, their mother, Felicia, and himself. No attendants, advisors, only this generation of Shield and King and the next.

Perhaps the public showed interest in this also because the King and his Shield were unorthodox in their first oaths, as it was today with two heirs being presented. The Lady Shield Crescentia Amicitia, well-loved, her popularity soaring, was continuing her unorthodox reign.

When they reached the crimson steps of the Citadel, she released their hands, and they were to approach the Citadel on their own. Clarus pushed aside the lessons that sprang to his mind about the historical significance of the color under their boots, and focused on the number of steps. There were forty five and he had to make certain he and Felicia, with her longer stride, ascended them at the same time. They paused at the stairs as their mother ascended and then fell to each of her sides; he on her right, Felicia at her left—her wings, for on each of their capes was an embroidered wing in gold thread, just like the ink on her arms.

Now they approached the Prophecy Room, where the ceremony in times past was traditionally held as every King must be considered the True King until it is decided by the Crystal they are not. Lessons had taught him the exceptions had been the throne room— usually reserved for the second and third oaths, the Old Wall, and even Tenebrae, though that was in part due to the urgency of an impending battle centuries ago. The most recent exception, the previous oath of presentation, had been twenty-five years ago in the crypts beneath their feet in the presence of Shields and Kings who had died together.

Clarus looked to his Mother’s face, to discern any hint of that exception, but she looked forward only to the King, to _her_ King, to the prince she had whispered her life to. At the center of the room, King Mors smiled at his Shield, at his friend, through the distance.

And there, at his side, stood the prince.

He was certain his mother introduced them when they were toddlers; there were pictures. There had been state dinners, where they had been carefully placed in each other’s presence, guided by attendants and their parents, but since there were two of them, he and his sister had always been kept at a measured distance to prevent Regis from choosing a favorite. And yet, there were four other occasions, ones he did not mention to his mother, when he had walked through the Citadel gardens to enjoy the flowers or study his lessons, and lingering amongst the petals, a curious expression about his face, was the young prince.

Clarus was always sure to close his books and call him _Your Highness_ , and Regis was always careful to correct him, to whisper across the flowers his name instead, and Clarus would share with him his favorites, pointing out the petals and colors and open his books to read his favorite passages.

Next to his father, the Prince was dressed in shorts, but in his full regalia—the irony not lost on Clarus because it was his name. He was already a _king_. As they approached closer to stand before them, it crossed his mind that one day he would be their King. His King.

**_My_** _King_ , Clarus thought.

Regis’ sharp eyes locked onto him and Clarus nearly froze in the intensity. He could see the King that he would be, the man that would protect the kingdom, the boy that would need protecting, and all he could think about was Regis’ laughter in the gardens, the dark curtain of curls that fell over his grey eyes as they read ancient tomes, their knees touching as they sat on the stone benches.

His mother kneeled; Clarus almost doubled over in pain at his fast correction to genuflect as well, his ribs still sore from the kick Felicia landed during training last week. He heard the low sigh his mother gave at the stutter of his performance.

“My King,” she began, acknowledging him, but the ceremony was meant only for the young fledgling Amicitia and the prince. “Your Highness, Crown Prince Regis of the Lucian Line, I present to you my children, Felicia Minerva and Clarus Aulus, of House Amicitia for your acceptance as Shield.”

Both he and Felicia rose as their name was called.

Regis spoke, the soft voice of an eight year old, but the poise of a prince. “I thank thee, Most Venerable and Adamant Lady Shield. I accept these members of your blood and blade as my shield until the end of our days.”

Clarus shivered; anticipation, dread? Is this the Grip? Was the Raven choosing him? In his vision of the king Regis would become, he saw himself at his side, but the same dread as earlier gripped at his heart. Only one of them would have the honor to be Shield, and Clarus knew in his heart it would be Felicia. She was everything he was and better. He would serve his purpose as the heir, the spare, to the name. If Felicia is the heir in blade, he would be the heir in blood, carrying on the name as she carried the crest—

“—Amicitia,” Regis continued, “Your House has pledged its Blood and Blade to my Line. Do you also pledge your blood and blade to me?”

The words might sound odd to come from a child not four years younger than him, but Clarus had his own response. They were to utter the most solemn vow of oaths, the _nectere_ , the binding. The first circumstance of fealty.

Kneeling once more, he drew a breath the same time as Felicia to synchronize their timing. They had practiced the oath to say it at the same speed, the same pitch, as his voice hasn’t changed yet like everyone says will happen soon.

“Of my blood I commend to thee,” they said together. Clarus thought of the name he was born to, of the duty and burden of his house. His first breath in this world was a battle cry, a herald of the Raven.

“Of my flesh, I lay before thee.” Clarus thought of the training he withstood, of the pain, the conditioning to be the last defense of the king, of the Astrals. As the Crystal was set to drain Regis’ life, he was set to help him endure it.

“Of my heart, I fill only with thee.” Clarus dared a glance up at the Prince, at Regis, at the deep eyes that gazed back, just as fearful of the setting of their destiny, and he thought of the laughter in the garden again, the secret between themselves and the petals. The grip around his heart lessened; even if Felicia became Shield, Clarus committed to be by Regis’ side.

They stood, one arm crossing their chests, fist to shoulder.

Felicia finished confidently, “Prince Regis, _mors tua vita mea_.” Regis nodded, accepting the pledge.

Clarus felt his heart pounding in his chest, feeling Regis’s eyes fall on him. “My Prince,” he uttered, seeing from his peripheral, the confusion of his intimate title displayed on his sister’s face. In that instant, he belonged to no one else but Regis and somehow, he felt that Regis belonged only to him. 

“ _Mors tua vita mea._ ”

 

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> mors tua vita mea- "My death, your life"


End file.
